


Fickle

by breathtaken



Category: Critical Role (Web Series) RPF
Genre: Community: criticalkink, F/M, Non-Monogamy, Safewords, Slapping, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22335325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: “You should apologize for stealing my drink,” she says, lips close to his ear, and as he smells her perfume he’s acutely aware of their position: her front an inch from his back, his arms wrapped across his chest like a straightjacket, her hands in his.“It was attempted stealing, at best,” he points out, making a half-hearted attempt to squirm out of her hold, and decides he isn’t particularly disappointed when her grip on him tightens.“Say.Sorry,” she insists, pulling one hand free from his and tickling him right in his armpit.
Relationships: Laura Bailey/Sam Riegel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Fickle

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this](https://criticalkink.dreamwidth.org/3385.html?thread=1264185#cmt1264185) kink meme prompt: Sam/Laura, dom!Laura.
> 
> **Content notes:** Laura ignores Sam saying no/stop (they are using safewords).
> 
> As usual, don't share this.

It’s been a long evening after an even longer day: Sam worked nine till six with a barely-humane amount of lunch break, before driving straight over to the studio for a lengthy dinner meeting followed by filming a new State of the Role video, and now that they’re _ done _at last and he’s finally got a drink in his hand, he’s feeling just a little bit silly.

His glass of wine has managed to empty itself far too soon, and it’s a lot easier to try and steal Laura’s drink right out of her hand than it is to just walk across the room and get himself a refill, and a lot funnier besides.

He didn’t expect her to take it lying down, exactly, but he doesn’t _ quite _ expect her to poke him in the side so hard it’ll probably bruise, and wrestle the glass right back from him before he even gets a sip.

“Hey! Get your own, you fucker!” she exclaims, sounding exactly as outraged as he expected.

“Well, according to Will Friedle we’re married, which makes what’s yours mine,” he grins, one hand still over hers on the stem of her glass as he tries to tickle her with the other, though she sees him coming and twists out of reach.

“If you were my _ actual _ husband you’d know better than to try and steal my drinks,” she retorts – and Sam automatically looks at Travis, who’s standing beside them with a look of amusement on his face, very much not getting involved.

“She’s not wrong,” he says mildly.

“It’s 2019, we can share,” Sam replies, trying to shock her into dropping her guard – and he only realizes he’s been outplayed when Laura suddenly runs her other hand up his ribs and tickles him _ hard, _until he’s forced to let go of her glass and use both hands to fight her off.

Travis is barely holding back his laughter. “Do you mean Laura or her drink? Cause the drink’s never gonna happen, I can tell you that now.”

“So you’d share your wife?” Sam asks, and winces when Laura promptly smacks him in the back of the head, even though it’s exactly what he expected when he said it. 

“I don’t think that’s up to me.” Travis winks, and Sam smiles and says, “Gonna get myself a refill.”

He’s swirling the wine around the inside of his glass to try and aerate it and hasn’t even taken a sip when someone comes up behind him and tickles him right in the most sensitive spot on his ribs – and he promptly swears and spills half the glass down his T-shirt and onto the floor.

For half a second he thinks it must be Liam before he realizes it’s Laura and she’s probably consulted Liam about his tickle spots in order to do him maximum damage.

He promptly necks what’s left of the wine, plonks the empty glass down on the bar and grabs her hands.

“You should apologize for stealing my drink,” she says, lips close to his ear, and as he smells her perfume he’s acutely aware of their position: her front an inch from his back, his arms wrapped across his chest like a straightjacket, her hands in his.

“It was attempted stealing, at best,” he points out, making a half-hearted attempt to squirm out of her hold, and decides he isn’t particularly disappointed when her grip on him tightens.

“Say. _ Sorry,_” she insists, pulling one hand free from his and tickling him right in his armpit.

“Ah – _ safeword!_” he yelps, a little too loudly, and when she drops her hands he spins around, hands still held defensively in front of his chest.

He doesn’t know what to expect, but she just says, “Oh shit, your _ shirt,_” giggling and putting a hand over her mouth, as he looks down at the large purple stain over his chest and shrugs. 

“Doesn’t matter, it’ll wash out. And I’ve got a spare in the car anyway.”

He grabs a couple of paper towels from behind the bar and cleans the rest of the wine spill off the floor with a smile, waving her off when she tries to help. She’s his favourite person to fuck with: so easy to rile, but always giving as good as she gets.

She’s still there when he gets up, giving him a speculative look. “You know, I thought you’d last longer before you had to use your safeword.”

Sam blinks.

It sounds like a question, and – 

The obvious conclusion is that this is a joke, but she doesn’t sound like she’s trying to be funny.

Perhaps the joke is to get him to think she’s _ not _ joking, so that then she can laugh at him for thinking she was hitting on him for real; they’ve fucked with each other enough that he wouldn’t put it past her. 

“I didn’t realize it was that kind of game,” he replies, with a look that he hopes says he’s joking if she is, but if she’s not then he might not be either.

There’s a beat of silence, then another as she looks at him like she’s seeing him for the first time; and just as he’s deciding that he’s a complete idiot and has taken things too far she leans in and curls her fingers against his waist, and says, tone low and intimate, “Wanna play some more?”

_ Okay, _ this is – he’s _ definitely _ not misinterpreting, then.

He still gives her his best deer in the headlights look for a second or two first, just in case she’s gonna burst out laughing at him; but when he thinks he sees the uncertainty start to creep into her expression, he can’t nod his head fast enough.

“Yeah. Yes. But I – I need to call my wife first?” he stutters, and feels suddenly a little light on air when she smiles triumphantly.

“Want me to get your shirt for you while you do?”

“Please.”

As he hands over his car keys, her fingers slide over his pulse point just a moment too long to be casual.

“See you in the makeup room in five,” she says, and waves at someone over his shoulder before walking away.

Sam turns to see Travis waving back at him with a shit-eating grin, and for a moment isn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or impressed.

He grins, pours another slug of wine, raises his glass to him and drains it in one gulp, before walking off the set.

His wife laughs at him, which he fully expected, and tells him to go for it, which he kind of also expected but makes his heart beat like a jackhammer in his chest all the same; when he hangs up a few minutes later with her blessing ringing in his ears, he feels like a ball of nervous energy.

Laura said five minutes. Has it been five minutes already? He puts his phone away and shoves his hands under his thighs to stop himself fidgeting, trying not to think about the fact that this is where she sits when she pumps, and of course being unable to _ not _ think about it after that – with the result that when she _ finally _ opens the door he’s already about to vibrate out of his chair with anticipation and guilt and already a little inappropriate arousal.

“Thanks,” he says, reaching for the shirt – and freezing when she pulls it out of reach.

“All good with Q?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Cause if you want this you’re gonna have to earn it,” she says, and she’s barely got the words out before he’s already nodding.

“How do I–?”

Her smile is wolfish. “Let me do whatever I want, of course.” 

“As if I could say no to you, Laura Bailey,” he grins, trying to fake some of his usual equilibrium as she advances on him, looming over him, weaving her fingers into the hair at the back of his head and forcing his head back, his eyes widening and his breath hitching.

“First you can try not being a smart mouth for once in your life,” she retorts, and sits on his lap, straddling his thighs, giving his hair another tug for good measure before worming her cold hands beneath the hem of his shirt and making him flinch.

“Ah! That’s cold,” he complains, as her grip on him tightens and he realizes there’s nowhere to go.

His clear discomfort just makes her smile even wider. “They’ll warm up.”

Then she starts to tickle him.

It’s – actually not as bad as he feared? She’s clearly going easy on him, he realizes, quick, light circling movements of her fingers around the sides of his stomach, just enough to make him giggle and shift in place, though he can’t exactly get very far. It makes him feel – warm, and as she smiles at him indulgently, he can’t help smiling back.

When she moves her hand up inside his shirt and hits a particularly sensitive spot his giggle becomes a yelp, and he twists, elbow clamping down against her hand before he can stop himself.

“Hey!” she says, and he gasps when she pinches him in the side – hard – and shoots her a betrayed look. “I think you need some help behaving. Hands on my shoulders.” 

As he reaches up and does as he’s told, he realizes just how exposed it leaves his entire torso, and shivers in anticipation.

“Good boy,” she says with a wicked smile, and _ God _ that should not be sexy but it is. “Keep them there.”

And then she starts to tickle him again, higher up his ribs in that exact spot that Liam _must_ have told her about, and _oh God_ it’s worse, it’s _so _much worse, his fingers are aching with how hard he’s gripping her shirt as he tries in vain to twist away from her hands, trapped by the chair at his back and her weight on his thighs, no more able to stop giggling than he could stop breathing.

When she finally lets up his breath is heaving from laughing and he’s starting to feel a little light-headed. “You’re so _ squirmy,_” she says, and he flushes hot all over as he stares at her. “This is fun.” She skitters her fingers down his ribs and his entire body jerks, and she laughs out loud. “Where else?”

“Um.” It’s difficult to think clearly when the animal part of his brain knows what’s coming and is tensed in anticipation of her doing it again – and when he’s silent too long and her fingers skitter up and down his ribs, he lets out a strangled whine. “My neck? And –” he grimaces – “my feet.”

He’s relieved when she laughs. “Yeah, no thanks. But don’t worry, I’ve got enough to work with here.”

She certainly looks like she’s enjoying tormenting him, bright-eyed and reveling in her own power, and it’s so fucking sexy he couldn’t tear his eyes from hers if he tried, even as she touches the nape of his neck and a full-body shudder runs through him.

“This is in the way,” she says, plucking disdainfully at the collar of his shirt. “I’m gonna take it off.”

He’s wound up enough already that he flinches when she lifts the hem, just from the backs of her fingers brushing the skin of his belly just above the waistband of his jeans, and she grins and says, “Can’t you keep still?”

“Not really,” he gasps, and lifts his arms as she pulls his shirt unceremoniously over his head – and then pauses, a familiar look of mischief in her eyes.

“Oh, _ this _ is good,” she says, and it’s a fight not to whine again when she gets up off his lap. “Scoot that chair forward a bit.”

He shuffles forward, pulling the chair with him a foot from the wall, and she arranges his arms so they’re hanging over the back of the chair, trapped there by his shirt, clasped hand to elbow, leaving his bare chest entirely unprotected, goosebumps already rippling across his skin in anticipation.

He hisses and almost jerks out of his seat when she tickles his ribs from behind, completely without warning; immediately she grabs his hair again and yanks it back, holding him in place against her stomach, baring his neck as her fingers dance all over his chest, drawing whines of protest from him between the giggles. She’s holding his head against her stomach and his arms are pressed into her thighs, and he closes his eyes cause he feels a bit weird about looking at her tits like this but that only makes him even more aware of her tormenting touch, the way it’s making him giggle and shake and pant.

“No, _ no, stop_,” he gasps between giggles, and she only pauses long enough to say, “You know what to say if you _ really _ want me to stop,” before tickling him right in his armpit until he’s whining through his teeth.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on like this. She lets go of his hair again, squashing his head between her tits and stomach, and uses both hands, stopping and starting randomly, and between his dread of what’s coming and not knowing _ when _ it’s coming he feels like he’s about to lose his mind. He’s no longer giggling constantly but he still can’t catch his breath, and when she gets him in both armpits at once it brings tears to his eyes, twisting uselessly in her grasp and whispering, “Stop, please, don’t, stop…”

“Don’t stop?” Laura teases, and stills for a second before tickling him again even harder, and he _ howls _ as tears prick in the corners of his eyes.

When her hands finally fall still for one, two, three, he practically sobs with relief.

“Hey, hey. You with me?”

“Yeah,” he says, though it isn’t quite true; it’s impossible to think beyond her hands on his chest and what they’re going to inflict on him next, and he shudders again when she strokes down his sides with her palms, in what he thinks is probably supposed to be a reassuring way.

“Shh. I barely touched you,” she says in a sing-song, bending over and resting her head on his shoulder. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“_No,_” he protests, and she laughs a little too loudly in his ear.

“Liar. I can see your boner –” and _ oh, yeah, _he’d been trying not to think about that.

“Sorry,” he says automatically, wanting to cover himself, but his arms are still trapped behind him and he thinks he can feel her breasts resting against them, which really isn’t helping.

“Don’t apologize. That was kind of the point.” 

She’s so close he can smell her perfume, and if he turned his head he could kiss her, but he’s not sure he dares.

“Do you wanna come?”

When he falters she pulls his hair again, _ hard, _ and says, “I asked you a question,” steel in her voice.

“Please, he admits, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her smile.

“You can jerk off,” she says, that low, sultry tone going straight to his cock. “But only while I’m touching you.”

And there’s no doubt in his mind as to what she means by _ touching. _

“_Fuck,_” he breathes as her words sink in, flexing his arms against the shirt restraining him. “Yes. Please.”

He doesn’t know if what’s doing it for him is being bossed around by an attractive woman, or the tickling – or both – but he’s really not sure he cares.

She pulls the shirt free and moves back around, straddling his thighs again as he stretches his slightly sore arms, rests his left hand against her waist, elbow flared so she can reach his armpit, and waits for her to command him.

“Look at me.”

As if he could look anywhere else.

She puts her hands on his waist, clawing her fingers, and smiles when he cringes.

He knows, really, that when she starts to tickle him again it’s not as hard as it was before, but his skin’s so sensitized that even the gentlest caress has him trembling and struggling not to recoil, torso twisting as he slowly puts his hands in his lap, and undoes his jeans.

He gasps when he gets a hand around his dick, and she immediately stills her fingers, smacking the back of his hand when he moves it – and she doesn’t hit his dick, but just the proximity is enough to make him flinch.

“Naughty. You stop when I stop,” she reminds him. “And don’t make me repeat myself again, or I’ll leave you hanging all night.”

“Sorry,” he says again, and forces himself to wait, wanting her to tickle him as much as he dreads it now that it means he can stroke his cock, hard and crying out for attention.

She makes him wait for just long enough that he opens his mouth to bed when her fingertips start to skate up and down his sides once more, fast and firm and enough to make him giggle even as he tries to squirm away; then he starts to stroke and all the signals get thoroughly mixed up, it’s wonderful and horrible all at once, and if this gives him a Pavlovian response then he knows where he’ll be sending his therapy bills.

Of course, she notices he’s suffering less and starts to work him even harder in response, until his world has entirely narrowed to just the two of them, her wicked smile and his own panting desperation as he tries and tries to avoid her fingers, gasping out, “No, please, stop –”

Of course the moment she stops he has to stop his hand too – and as he realizes what she’s done to him, he can see in her expression just how much she’s enjoying it.

“_Laura,_” he whines a few moments later when her fingers _ still _ aren’t moving, and he’s pretty sure he’s not above begging her. “Please?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I thought you wanted me to stop.”

“Wasn’t my safeword,” he manages between gasps, though he feels like he can barely string words together.

“Words have meanings, you know.” 

He gives her his best puppy-dog expression in response, and she rolls her eyes, though she doesn’t quite stop smiling, and tickles him so hard he yelps and curses, giggles mixing in with moans as he fucks his own fist, head spinning as a steady heat builds in his belly.

“Close, he gasps, looking up into her eyes, wordlessly pleading. “Can I–?”

“Yeah, you can come,” she says – and he didn’t think it was possible for her to tickle him even _ harder, _but she does.

He comes into his own fist with a strangled howl right as the tears spill over, Laura clapping her hand over his mouth a second later.

“Jesus Christ,” she hisses, “They probably heard that on set!”

When Sam just stares at her wide-eyed, his entire body trembling as though the echoes of her touch are still running through him, her expression softens and she moves her hands to his cheeks, brushing the tears away before she leans in and kisses him.

“Let me get you a tissue,” she says, and she’s pulling away when he grabs her wrist and blurts out, “Can I touch you?”

There’s something in the way she laughs that makes him realize for the first time, _ she’s nervous. _

“If you get absolutely _ all _that spunk off your hands, then sure,” she replies; and the next thirty seconds are a little awkward as she waits for him to clean up and put his dick away, but then he gets to his feet and takes her in his arms, hesitating for a moment as he tries to decide how forward to be – until she unbuttons her jeans with one hand, takes his hand and shoves it unceremoniously inside her panties.

She’s absolutely _ dripping. _

“You liked that,” he breathes, and in reply she moans and pushes her jeans down to her thighs so he can push two fingers inside her cunt.

“_Yeah, _ right there,” she says as he crooks his fingers and angles his hand to put pressure on her clit, and when she trembles and comes apart in his arms, he kisses her through it. 

Once they’ve both cleaned off and re-dressed, he hesitates; he may not be a stranger to extramarital activities but this is the first time he’s done them with her, and there’s not exactly an etiquette for these situations.

But she smiles with no trace of awkwardness as she steps forward and kisses him lightly on the lips. “That was fun. But we should get back.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and has one hand on the door handle when she calls out, “We’re even. For now.”

He turns. 

“For now.”

“But you know what happens if you mess with me.”

She’s smiling like a predator, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to be in her sights.

“I’m sure you’ll make the punishment fit the crime,” he says, and lets himself out of the room without looking back, already planning what he can do to earn it.


End file.
